The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  Polly heard the others, even her sister, protest, but funnily enough, her mother’s spite had the effect of putting iron in her backbone. ‘I disagree.’ It was cool and cutting. ‘But then I’ve heard it said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and we both know exactly how you view me, don’t we, Mother?’

  It was the first time in Polly’s life that she had ever addressed her mother by the more formal title, and everyone in the room was aware of it, along with the fact that the young woman standing so proudly in the middle of the room had an authority about her that had been made all the more noticeable by the fine clothes. She neither looked nor sounded like young Polly.

  To say that Hilda appeared taken aback was putting it mildly, and Henry had the unique – and very pleasant – experience of seeing his sharp-tongued wife lost for words in the moments before the sound of a horse and trap outside in the yard indicated that Frederick had arrived.

  Michael was feeling sick with a mixture of nervous excitement and apprehension, and this feeling had been mounting steadily over the last weeks. He had known for years he was going to ask Polly to marry him, and for almost as long that she would accept when he did, but now the day was here – now it was actually time – the reality was overwhelming; not least how he could contrive to get her alone for a moment or two to pop the question.

  It was like a menagerie every week in that farmhouse kitchen. He frowned to himself as he looked ahead into the snowy landscape where his mother and half-brothers were striding ahead, their footsteps making deep indentations in the virgin snow. Since Ruth had pushed Polly into the river that time, his grandparents had been adamant they all stay in the kitchen or about the farm buildings, and such close proximity with the others had made any courting impossible. Courting! He gave a mental snort at the word. He hadn’t even held her hand in years. Every Sunday, come rain, hail or snow, they’d have politics and religion and every other subject under the sun raked over until its bones were showing. He hadn’t minded at one time, but since the urge to be alone with Polly had grown, he’d got sick of the sound of the others’ voices.

  ‘You all right, Mike?’

  As Luke turned round and called, Michael raised his hand in response, saying, ‘Aye, I’m fine, man.’ Luke was the only one who called him Mike; to nearly everyone else he was Mick or Michael. And Luke was the only person – apart from Polly and his father – he had any time for. He was a good bloke, Luke, and intelligent too. How he and Arnold came from the same mother and father he’d never know. His eyes now fastened on the back of Arnold’s head and narrowed with dislike. He was a big ignorant nowt, Arnold, but nasty with it, and cunning. Michael was afraid of this brother, and he knew Arnold sensed it and used it to his advantage. Same as Arnold had sensed he and Polly liked each other, and never missed an opportunity to make snide comments about her. Never when Luke was around – Arnold had a healthy respect for Luke’s fists and caustic tongue and he knew Luke looked on Polly and Ruth the same as sisters – but when they were alone that was a different matter.

  Michael brought his eyes from the big bulky shape of Arnold but his thoughts continued to flow on. He was a vindictive so-an’-so, his eldest brother, and nothing would convince him other than that Arnold’s carping about Polly – which had grown with the years – was a result of Polly making it clear she had no time for him. And she could do that, Poll; with just a glance of those deep blue eyes she could put you in your place all right. He grinned to himself. But if things went right today he’d soon be away from Arnold and the town and the pit. Aye, the pit ... His stomach knotted at the thought of it. What was the betting the talk in the kitchen would touch on the mine explosion in France again? Three weeks running they’d had that, and aye, it was criminal that over a thousand miners had died and that it could happen here as easy as winking, but Sunday was his day away from that hell-hole. He felt for the families in Courrieres as much as the next man, but he didn’t want the pit rammed down his throat every minute of every damn day.

  And he knew exactly how many days he’d been underground. They were engraved on his mind, his soul, and his innards still broke loose from the casting of his stomach every time he descended in the cage the same as they had that very first morning he’d gone into hell.

  The blackness, rats the size of small cats, the foul language, men reduced to animals as they squatted a bit away from where they were working to do their business, which created a smell – especially in-bye, where it was particularly warm – that was unimaginable; that was bad enough. As was crawling along on his knees under a roof held up by props that looked like matchsticks when you thought about the tons of stone and coal and muck above you, and always – always – with an ear half cocked as you listened to what the roof was doing. The ‘bowking’ noise that different layers made when they cracked, the ‘fissling’ noise which meant the floor was beginning to creep and the warning rattle that meant you’d got seconds to get to safety. Michael brushed his hand across his face, which his thoughts had caused to become damp with sweat, and then pulled his cap down more firmly over his forehead.

  And still there were the explosions that gave no warning at all, especially in bad weather, when the atmospheric pressure was low. He had learned not to vomit when he saw a man injured by a fall of stone or coal, or trapped by a pocket of gas that had exploded when a hewer’s pick had released it. Death and injury and roof-falls and foul air had been part of his life for two years now, and he knew he would go mad if he didn’t get out of there soon. The terrible feeling that he’d kept under control all that time, when his heart started to pound against his ribs and reverberate in his eardrums until his head felt it was going to explode and the sweat ran in his oxters, that feeling was going to take him over one day soon.

  He breathed deeply several times and then lifted his head to see the farm in the distance. But it wouldn’t take him over would it, because there was Polly and the farm, and they both meant life and sanity. He knew his da didn’t feel the way he did about the pit, nor Luke and Arnold, and he didn’t understand why he was so different. He’d fought against it at first until he realised he wasn’t going to win, and it had only been the thought of marrying Polly and them moving into one of the farm labourers’ cottages and working on his grandda’s farm that had kept him going. And the good Lord had kept him safe. Aye, he praised God for that. He’d spilled out his guts many a time to Father McAttee in confession and it had helped him get through the next week. And now it was time.

  The thought spurred him on to catch up the others, and as he neared them Luke turned and waited for his approach, whereupon they stood together for a moment, their faces turned to the clean, crisp wind that carried the scent of snow in its biting embrace. ‘Canny, eh?’ Luke’s eyes were sweeping the white fields and snow-dusted trees and hedgerows before his gaze lifted to the wide expanse of light-washed sky. ‘Makes you want to breathe it all in and let it wash all the styfe of the pit out of your lungs.’

  Michael nodded, and then turned to look Luke full in the face. He was good-looking, his half-brother, and he certainly had enough lasses giving him the eye, but Luke also possessed something Michael knew he didn’t have which had a drawing power all of its own. There was a well of life in him, a virility that was strong and potent, and even without his attractive features and big solid frame, Luke would have been compelling. Luke would never be beaten. Michael acknowledged a pang of admiration that was tinged with envy. Luke would fight and keep fighting until his dying breath and always get what he wanted.

  ‘Look at your mam.’ Luke brought Michael’s attention to the large, formidable figure of Eva that even Arnold was having difficulty keeping up with. ‘She can fair move when she wants to.’

  ‘And she always wants to when we’re going to the farm.’ The two exchanged a grin before Michael added, ‘I can understand it, mind. There’s nothing I like better than being out here.’

  ‘Aye.’ Luke nodded but said nothing more as the two started to walk aga
in. He knew Michael loved the farm as much as he hated the pit, and he had seen what working underground was doing to his young brother. He also knew how Michael felt about Polly. He felt his guts twist in spite of himself. If it had been anyone else but Michael, anyone else, he would have used every trick in the book — fair means or foul – to supplant him in Polly’s affections. But he couldn’t set himself up against Michael, not Michael.

  Apart from the fact that Michael was his baby brother and the link between them had always been strong, he recognised that in the slight, almost willowy figure of the young lad at the side of him there dwelt an intrinsic goodness, a gentleness, that was rare. And Michael needed to get out of the pit; it was killing him slowly, inch by inch.

  Why Luke himself came to the farm every week, however, was a different kettle of fish. How often had he told himself he was barmy, doo-lally, to put himself through it? But he couldn’t stay away, that was the heart of the matter. Perhaps when the thing was settled, when Michael had asked her – and Michael would ask Polly to be his lass, and soon – it would allow him to cut the thread that pulled him back here week after week. It didn’t do him any good, that was for sure. His body burned for nights afterwards and many a time he’d been tempted to ease himself with Olive Robson or Nancy McClean, or lately Katy Chapman. But he didn’t want Nancy or Katy, or any of the others who made it clear they were willing.

  He might move away altogether. As they came within fifty yards of the farm, Luke’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. That was the answer. There was always one of the Newcastle pits, or maybe Harton Colliery in South Shields. Harton was a particularly wet pit and subsequently the wages were higher. One of his da’s brothers lived in Boldon Lane; he could board with them until he got sorted, and from what his da had said in the past, South Shields wasn’t so different to Sunderland. There were the same huge steamships coming up the river, many with foreign names, blowing their horns and whistles ready for their bales, crates and barrels to be offloaded on to the docks in big rope nets, with hundreds of men shouting to the fellers operating the slings, telling them where to set them down and grabbing them with hooks as they descended. The same Sunday-morning markets at the quaysides where you could buy anything for a few pence, and the quacks and tricksters would be gathered selling their wares and doing their acts; and rowing races on the river itself – be it the Tyne or the Wear – when everyone would be shouting and cheering, and once the winner passed the finishing line, the foghorns blasting and the ships’ whistles blowing was enough to deafen a body, and everyone went mad jumping up and down.

  Aye, he wouldn’t want to move to a little village pit, not after living in Monkwearmouth close to the Wear. He’d got used to the parks with their shuggy boats and swings and lakes chock full of tadpoles and tiddlers, not to mention the beach, where all the local lads and lasses did their courting.

  The thought of the evenings when he had watched young couples sedately marching the sands brought his mind back to Polly, and now, as Luke followed Michael across the farmyard to where the open kitchen door was emitting the sound of chattering voices, he gave a mental nod to the prospect of Harton Colliery.

  Nothing was going to change here; he could forecast exactly how the next months and years were going to develop. He had no wish to exist on the perimeter of Polly and Michael’s life as a benevolent uncle figure to their bairns, and that was what would happen sure enough. It was time to leave Sunderland. He’d miss his da, though. He paused at the kitchen door and raised his eyes to the grey-white sky above, in much the same way Polly had done the day before. But his da had seemed happier of late. He looked younger, lighter, somehow, and Luke had even caught him singing ‘Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie’ the other night, when his da’d been having his wash-down in the tin bath in front of the fire. He couldn’t remember ever hearing his da sing before and he’d wondered if he’d got a load on, but his breath hadn’t smelt of beer or whisky. So maybe things were looking up at last between him and Eva.

  Luke brought his head down into his neck and narrowed his eyes as he heard his name called from inside the room. They were waiting for him. His hand fingered the small package in his jacket pocket. And as it looked as though this was the last birthday party he’d attend here for quite some time, he’d better put a brave face on it. So thinking, he pushed the door wide and walked into the house.

  Chapter Seven

  The bedroom was not overly small, being the whole of the upstairs of the three-roomed cottage, but crammed full as it was with old, somewhat battered furniture, it gave the appearance of such. But as Nathaniel stretched and wrinkled his toes, flexing his arms before his hands made a pillow for his head, he reflected that a king’s palace wouldn’t suit him better. And it was all to do with the woman who was now nudging the bedroom door further ajar with her foot, her hands being full with two cups of steaming-hot tea.

  ‘Thanks, lass.’ Nathaniel sat up straight as he took his cup, and as she slid under the covers beside him and he felt the nearness of her, her soft, warm voluptuousness under the old flock dressing gown she’d pulled on before leaving the bed some minutes before, his body hardened in spite of the fact they’d only just made love. But she did that to him, his Tess. He had never met anyone who was so big, and he didn’t mean in the physical sense, although she had plenty of meat on her bones – she made two of him at any rate. No, he meant the fount of loving, of tenderness, of generosity that made up the core of her. Even his Dora, God rest her soul, hadn’t loved him like Tess did.

  ‘There’ll be a bite of panhacklety later on when your dinner’s got down, if you want it.’

  ‘That’s like askin’ a dyin’ man if he wants the lifeline thrown to him.’

  ‘Oh, you.’ Tess smiled as she wriggled against him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. She took a sip of her tea before saying, her voice quieter now, ‘Doesn’t she wonder why you don’t want any tea come Sunday night these days?’

  He’d wondered about that himself until he had realised Eva probably didn’t notice what he ate and drank. ‘I always have a bite of somethin’ on me plate to show willin’, and the lads wolf down the lot fast as blinkin’ anyway. Besides – ’ the tone of his voice changed, a bitter note creeping in – ‘Eva wouldn’t care if I slowly starved in front of her, lass, an’ that’s the truth.’

  ‘Oh, Nat.’ Tess bit on her lip for a moment before she said, ‘I’ve said it afore and I’ll say it agen, she doesn’t know when she’s well off.’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ What had he ever done to have this woman love him like she did? The thought swept away all the bitterness the mention of Eva had caused. He could hardly believe there was a time when he hadn’t been coming to this house and losing himself in the great warm expanse that was Tess, but it had only been the last twelve months, since the accident at the pit had taken her man. Nathaniel had been working with Perce when it had happened – a piece of roof had fallen on his skull and split it in two – and although he’d never liked the man, he’d felt obliged to go and see his widow and offer a little comfort in telling her Perce had died instantly and without suffering. And that had been the start of it.

  Tess had made him welcome with a cup of tea and a piece of lardy cake when he’d called to see her at the house in Carley Road at the side of the Carley Hill wagonway, and by the time he’d left – some two hours later – he had known her marriage had not been a happy one. He hadn’t known Perce had regularly used her as a punch bag, that had come later, along with the fact that Tess – in spite of her big hips and buxom appearance – had had one miscarriage after another all through her ten years of marriage. Mind, Perce’s fists had helped them along.

  Nathaniel drew in a long, hard breath and, reaching down, put his tea on the bare floorboards before doing the same with Tess’s cup. ‘I love you, lass.’ He folded her into his arms as he spoke, his voice thick. ‘You know that, don’t you? An’ all this skulkin’ about don’t sit well, you deserve better than that.’

&nb
sp; ‘I don’t mind, lad.’ Tess twisted in his arms, her hand coming up to his face, which she stroked softly. ‘I don’t mind anything as long as you keep coming here. The last twelve months have been the happiest of me life, and though I know I shouldn’t say it, Perce being dead an’ all, I thank God everything happened as it did. But I don’t want to cause trouble for you, that’s the last thing I want. If Sunday afternoons and the odd evening in the week is all we have I’ll be content with that, aye, an’ count meself lucky. But I’m worried it’ll get back to her some day soon.’

  ‘There’s not much chance of that.’ He wished there was if the truth be told; it would take the decision of what to do out of his hands. ‘She’s never had anythin’ to do with anyone, you know that. Kept herself to herself an’ even got on the wrong side of our Eustace’s wife, an’ that’s no easy thing to do.’

  Tess nodded. Carley Road was separated from the gridwork of streets that fanned out from Southwick Road by the Cornhill glassworks, but one of her neighbours – married to a miner – had a sister who lived next door to Nathaniel, and she had some stories to tell. In a community where a woman’s lot involved a constant fight against poverty, dirt, disease and the dreaded words ‘laid off’, good neighbours and family sometimes meant the difference between the workhouse or struggling through. ‘But that Eva, she’d see you in hell afore she’d lift a finger,’ Joan had said more than once as they had gossiped over the backyard wall. ‘There was our Mildred, just had the bairn an’ right poorly with it, an’ did Eva offer to take the other uns, even for an hour or two? Did she blazes. Not even a pot of tea an’ a comfortin’ word when all she’s got to do all day is sit on her backside with the menfolk down the pit an’ her youngest at school, an’ they’re not hard up, not compared to most. An’ it was Nora on Mildred’s other side – God bless her – who took the bairns an’ fed ’em an’ brought in an evenin’ meal once Don was home from the pit. An’ Nora’s not got two pennies to rub together, not with her brood to feed an’ clothe. By, she’s a crabby, tight so-an’-so, that Eva. I pity her menfolk, I do straight.’